


Vanishing Point

by Argyle



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-28
Updated: 2007-07-28
Packaged: 2018-01-13 03:18:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1210663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing had changed. (London, 1920)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vanishing Point

It was Aziraphale’s idea.  
  
If it had been up to Crowley, there would have been no trek through Hyde Park, let alone one on a Tuesday morning. Of course Crowley was quite busy: vices and possessions and slow, silent sins didn’t simply implant themselves in prospective parties, Crowley had said, knowing well that these days, or all days, they did just that. Obviously the war had created something of a backlog for everyone. And didn’t Aziraphale have work of his own to catch up on?  
  
Here Crowley tilted his head in such a way as to take best advantage of the angle at which his sunglasses perched upon the bridge of his nose. Sunlight glared through the open window, falling down in mean streaks across the frames and lenses. It made his eyes well up.  
  
How Aziraphale had smiled at that. He almost tittered, and said, not unkindly, “You can’t stay holed up in here forever, sitting about with these…” He made an expansive, though hardly disdainful, gesture. Crowley wasn’t sure he liked having his possessions summed up in such a way. Some things were worth more than others, and all of his things were worth quite a lot. But then again, Aziraphale seemed at a loss for words, his gaze lingering on the Beardsley or the Brueghel or the twelfth century map of Constantinople, and he finished softly, “When did you get that one?”  
  
“I’ve had it.”  
  
“Oh.” And then, “But you’ll regret not coming along, you know. A bit of fresh air does wonders for one’s outlook.”  
  
“I don’t have regrets,” Crowley replied, smoothly.  
  
“It’s warm out.”  
  
“It’s August.”  
  
“We’ve not walked together for months.”  
  
For a moment, Crowley was at a loss for words. Then he agreed to go.  
  
He told himself it wasn’t to do with the way Aziraphale’s mouth had twitched after that last declaration, and it wasn’t to do with the way Aziraphale had then swiftly turned away, making a beeline for the door, his eyes only momentarily swinging towards Constantinople. It wasn’t to do with Aziraphale’s bargaining skills, or the weather, or the months they’d not walked together. He hadn’t even realized the latter was so, or would have put it at weeks; but then again, time did have a way of piling up.  
  
So it was that he found himself sprawled on a bench on that glinting summer morning. Indeed, he had long since shed his jacket and rolled his shirtsleeves to the elbow, though this was more out of habit than necessity: it wasn’t so bad to feel the sun on his arms. And while Aziraphale had said the air would be fresh, it was nothing of the kind. There were trees all about them, yes, and the scent of sweet peas and carnations drifted out from a kerbside flower stall, but below all that hung the odor of automobile fumes, slick with oil.  
  
Crowley heard the pop and rattle of exhaust pipes, not as sporadic as they had once been, but now there were fewer horses to startle. He heard the throb of engines, mimicking -- albeit unknowingly -- the throb of some ancient geyser, the thrum of carriages and footfall through the reek of bygone streets, the rattle of mortars before No Man’s Land.  
  
A boy on a bicycle peddled fiercely past them. A gaggle of widows lurked by the far side of the footpath, pausing only to gawk at the patter of a plane overhead.  
  
“And do you know what I said to him?” Aziraphale was murmuring. Then, without waiting for Crowley’s response, “I said I was getting along quite well without a courier service, and that he oughtn’t let the door hit him on the way out. Leave it to Gabriel to come down with a penchant for carrier pigeons in the age of postage stamps. Next he’ll claim to have invented the aqueducts.”  
  
“One of mine, actually.”  
  
“Were they really?”  
  
Crowley shrugged. “So you told him to--”  
  
“Bugger off? Well, yes. In a way. Just without that last bit,” Aziraphale said. “And the bit before that. But he knew I was serious.”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
“Anyway, it’s not like I pop round to waste _his_ time whenever the mood strikes me.”  
  
“Because that’s something you reserve for me, eh?” Crowley grinned.  
  
Aziraphale did not return the gesture.  
  
“Joking,” Crowley said. “Procrastination isn’t something I can actively disapprove of.”  
  
“Well, if you’ve something better to do--”  
  
Crowley didn’t reply. Instead, he let himself slide several inches down the bench, his weight shifting the boards slightly, and he draped his arm along the top. With his right hand, he unbuttoned his collar. Then he yawned, gapingly; warmth pooled at his throat.  
  
For a moment, not so long before, the horizon had wavered and gradually the world about him seemed to gather towards one central point. But it was nothing more than a trick of the light.  
  
Nothing had changed.  
  
As with all things, there was a return to order, to complacency and routine. In time, even the memory would fade, and meaning would be bled from even the ruddiest verse, leaving only yet more backlog in its wake. And of course there would be other wars.  
  
A low jingling could be heard above the city din, about and over and accompanied by the scrape of trolley wheels on gravel. Off and on, the sound diminished, only to resume, redouble.  
  
“Want an ice-cream?” Crowley asked, idly.  
  
Aziraphale blinked. “It’s ten-thirty in the morning,” he said. And then, after a pause, “D’you suppose there’s double chocolate truffle?”  
  
To the apparent surprise of the young, bespectacled vendor, there was.  
  
There was also strawberry mousse, lemon sorbet, toffee crème, and ginger swirl.  
  
Crowley ordered peppermint stick. It proceeded to melt the moment the boy had scooped it from the icebox: Crowley fixed it with a stare, but down and down it went, over his fingertips and wrist. He wrenched a kerchief from his pocket and sopped up the mess, and then tossed several coins onto the trolley’s metallic top.  
  
“Thanks,” he said.  
  
The boy gave a bewildered nod.  
  
And though the park was lately quite crowded, their bench remained unoccupied. Crowley slumped down on it; Aziraphale followed suit, and though he sat closer than he had before, Crowley made no comment.  
  
Indeed, it was a small wonder he noticed at all, so intent had he become on not spilling ice-cream onto his lap. Rather, it dripped onto Aziraphale’s shoe instead.  
  
“Really, Crowley,” Aziraphale admonished, and nibbled a bit down the side of his cone. “You’d think you never had one before.”  
  
“It’s been a while,” Crowley admitted. “But I think it’ll be good for the leather.”  
  
“You mean having the ability to stain.”  
  
“Beau Brummell _swore_ by milk to shine his boots.”  
  
“Champagne. And you realize he was a most unabashed liar.”  
  
“Well, I’m sure it won’t make them any tattier. You’ve had that pair what, eighty years?”  
  
“Good taste never goes out of style,” Aziraphale said, a trifle pettishly. He swallowed a bit of ice-cream, paused a moment, and then wrinkled his nose. “Speaking of which: I suppose I ought to have picked a different flavor.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“One of the chocolates is off.”  
  
“Well, at least you’re left with a second to fall back on. Mine’s awful through-and-through.”  
  
“Good heavens,” Aziraphale drawled. “Peppermint stick, was it?”  
  
“Filled with chewy bits.” Crowley munched for a moment. “Like from a sweetshop.”  
  
“How terrible for you.”  
  
“I can’t think of anything worse.”  
  
“What about apple strudel?”  
  
“There’s no such flavor.”  
  
Aziraphale flicked his tongue over the corner of his mouth, whisking away an errant bead of chocolate. “But if there was--”  
  
“Horrible,” Crowley agreed. “Or, I don’t know, buttered rum.”  
  
“Dreadful. Raspberry tort?”  
  
Crowley shuddered visibly. “But not as bad as mocha hazelnut.”  
  
“Have you ever _tasted_ vanilla pecan?”  
  
“Point taken.”  
  
Aziraphale sighed. The elm above them trembled in the breeze. “Do you think there’s such a thing as too much variety?”  
  
“No,” Crowley said.  
  
“But one can’t argue with the classics.”  
  
“And to bring us back to our initial point, your shoes aren’t in good taste, Aziraphale.”  
  
Aziraphale sniffed. “Well, you have ice-cream on your trousers.”  
  
But before Crowley could look, the angel leaned forward to kiss him. There was chocolate on his lips, and buttered rum on his tongue. “What was that?” Crowley asked, pulling back.  
  
“Hmm?” None-too-innocently, Aziraphale wound his tongue round the base of his ice-cream. Here and there, his knuckles shone with sugary residue. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re referring to.”  
  
“You gave in.”  
  
“I didn’t.”  
  
“Buttered rum?”  
  
“Yes? Funny, I thought I detected a hint of apple strudel.”  
  
Crowley smiled grimly, sliding his sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose.  
  
If it was with smugness that Aziraphale finished his ice-cream, Crowley made no comment.  
  
And all the while, the people bustled on about them, neither oblivious nor unfeeling, but simply bewitched by the pertinence of their own lives. Here was the boy on the bike, there the gaggle of widows, faces obscured by the great shadows of black parasols, hands tucked neatly to their sides. Crowley saw them smile, and so seeing, assumed Aziraphale saw them too.  
  
Sunlight swayed down from the high boughs. Sunlight nipped at the surface of the Serpentine.  
  
When Crowley kissed Aziraphale again, the flavor of buttered rum had gone.


End file.
